Today, all afternoon, I rode the high as far as it would take me and it felt good. I spent the day with my father, and I gave him the precious gift of my time.
For so long during my bulimia he was the source of my triggers, my anxiety, and my bipolarity. He never went unpunished in my head. God knows what happened, but I distinctly recall the day I raged - screaming incessantly about my ED 'why couldn't he believe that I was sick, why couldn't he understand that everything he did hurt me, why couldn't he help me!' and I shoved and punched and eventually he pinned my hands and restrained me. I was humiliated, but still filled with righteous anger and I kicked and wailed. I couldn't rationally explain why I was behaving that way; every motion seemed instinctual; that made me even more enraged. He brusquely told me to "Grow up. Stop acting like a child." That upset me even more. At that point, all I wanted to do was open the door and run as far as I could, and as soon as I feigned calm and he released me, I ran outside. I vomited and slept on the dewy grass. He was worried and frantic, but I really didn't give a damn. I felt locked inside my own world and my own decisions. I was hurt and reluctant to show my face. I thought it would prove I was culpable. That day has been erased from my fathers memory, just like my ED, but for me it remains a constant reminder to never argue with my father; lesson learned. The thought of any confrontation with him makes me sick to my stomach, still.
Today though, was a manic day - no medication- the day that I felt like treating my father, and the only time I felt comfortable in his presence. He feeds my mania, he loves my mania; I'm fun and agreeable and devious. He enjoys talking to that person, not the depressed-wasted-waif. The happy, happy, happy, go, go, go girl is the one his loves; no me. All that does is make me want my full-time bulimia back, because that is the person he knows and can love without tip toeing around my "issues" that I'll "grow out of."
He took me to a used book shop Downtown, and I was hooked. He bought me 33 dollars worth of books. "Picture Perfect and Second Glance" by Jodi Picoult and the first 3 books of the "Mercy Thompson series" by Patricia Briggs. I was high on life baby, and it was rapturous. I had no control over it. But, I do feel a little hope that now my relationship with my father can be repaired. It won't be an easily bandaged wound, but I think we can accomplish a semblance of what we used to have - when I was a kid. I hope.
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
noises in the darkness
Dad purchased a new computadora for me – HP 625 with Ubuntu Linux. My old 2007 MacBook has crashed not once but twice, needing a new dvd drive not once but twice, too. Luckily I back up my laptop; especially lucky I backed it up the morning it crashed. Why are Mac's so flimsy? Expensive?
I've relapsed, after going nigh 3 months with b/p, like an unrestrained zoo animal – leaping for food any chance it's swung. I'll wake up with the best of intentions – and then after my first bowl of cereal desperation will settle in and I spiral out of control, shuffling bowl after bowl of cereal into my gullet. The loss of control is startling, and in the middle of the act I am often doggedly hunting for the reasons why – why is it that this time I lose control?
Lately, I've been intellectualising, and scrutinising my ED under a finely-scoped mental lens – trying to shuffle this spastic mess into some semblance of sense. According to my psychiatrist, my ED is a extrinsic response to urgently wanting to purge my father from my body - which I believe. When I binge, I am numb, when I purge I'm relieved of the encumbering heaviness. Just like a metaphor, I numb myself of my father's expectations, purging myself of his oppressive weight.
It's a symbolic killing machine.
But the relapse. Was it triggered by the nitpicking my father resumed, or his recent hefty assurances? Both are equally spanning, and acknowledging one of them hefts the blame on his shoulders as well as my own. The correlations are obvious to me, but choosing one over the other is faulty reasoning. Bulimia is murdering me, so why do I need to find the roots?
Because it comes with experience, and as stomach clenching as it is – for the hope of recovery I need to know and prevent the roots from nudging their way in and taking structure.
I've relapsed, after going nigh 3 months with b/p, like an unrestrained zoo animal – leaping for food any chance it's swung. I'll wake up with the best of intentions – and then after my first bowl of cereal desperation will settle in and I spiral out of control, shuffling bowl after bowl of cereal into my gullet. The loss of control is startling, and in the middle of the act I am often doggedly hunting for the reasons why – why is it that this time I lose control?
Lately, I've been intellectualising, and scrutinising my ED under a finely-scoped mental lens – trying to shuffle this spastic mess into some semblance of sense. According to my psychiatrist, my ED is a extrinsic response to urgently wanting to purge my father from my body - which I believe. When I binge, I am numb, when I purge I'm relieved of the encumbering heaviness. Just like a metaphor, I numb myself of my father's expectations, purging myself of his oppressive weight.
It's a symbolic killing machine.
But the relapse. Was it triggered by the nitpicking my father resumed, or his recent hefty assurances? Both are equally spanning, and acknowledging one of them hefts the blame on his shoulders as well as my own. The correlations are obvious to me, but choosing one over the other is faulty reasoning. Bulimia is murdering me, so why do I need to find the roots?
Because it comes with experience, and as stomach clenching as it is – for the hope of recovery I need to know and prevent the roots from nudging their way in and taking structure.
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